


I'll Love You Forever

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Crying Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Relationship, Finger Sucking, Forest Sex, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion is Bad at Communicating, Love Confessions, M/M, Makeup Sex, Men Crying, Miscommunication, Missionary Position, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:02:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22578817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: Jaskier slowly drags himself into a sitting position, wincing a bit at the sharp throb of pain the movement elicits in his lower spine. Gods, but Geralt had fucked him good . “I know that… we have rather different definitions of forever, but… if you’ll have me, I’d like to spend mine loving you.”He stares into Jaskier’s tired, cornflower blue eyes for a long moment, before conceding, “Forever, then. You’ll be mine… and I’ll be yours.”Jaskier’s smile is brighter than the fucking sun as he tackles Geralt, knocking them both to the ground, and snuggles down onto the older man’s chest. “I love you… and I will love you until I die. And if there is a life after that, I’ll love you then.” He plants a soft kiss on his stomach, before whispering, “Not all good things have to end.”AKAJaskier is an idiot who publicly denies his feelings for Geralt. Because there can be no other explanation other than Jaskier having finally grown wise and realizing how unhealthy it is to entertain a long-term relationship with a Witcher, Geralt decides to be a gentleman and handle the messy break-upforhim.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 634





	I'll Love You Forever

Geralt is always waiting for the end. 

He’d learned early on that it’s difficult to appreciate the little moments - the soft smiles, the tender kisses, the casual touches, the loving embraces - when sooner or later, everything is bound to go to shit. True, romantic love is a lie, invented by bards seeking to swindle young noblewomen trapped in loveless marriages of convenience out of their husband’s coin. And even if it _ were _ real, it is certainly not for Witcher’s that reek of death and destiny and _ regret _. 

A handful of coin can _ buy _ him love. Honey-sweet lips will drip filth like molasses as he fucks into a warm, slick hole that’s smooth as velvet, short, blunt nails leaving dark red streaks along his olive skin as he tears orgasm after orgasm from her lithe frame. He won’t tell her his name, and if she mentions hers, it’ll be long-forgotten by the time he reaches the next town over. It may not be the love forever memorialized in song, but it is love. Or lust. Sometimes, the two are so closely intertwined, it is impossible to differentiate one from the other. The _ point _ is that everything _ ends _ \- the whore leaves once his cock has softened, his lovers leave once they’ve bled him dry of all he has to give.

Everything ends. There is no point in attempting to challenge one’s fate, when the gods have already decreed that you are meant to spend the rest of your days alone.

He’s waited quite some time for Jaskier to grow wise and leave. The bard is an idiot, with no sense of self-preservation to speak of, and perhaps that is why he’d gotten the idea in his pretty little head that loving the Butcher of Blaviken was… well… Geralt sighs, taking another sip of his ale as he watches Jaskier charm a pleasant-looking young maiden out of her smalls. He knows that the bard isn’t _ actively _ trying to flirt with the young woman, but that hardly works to dissolve the knot in his stomach as he’s hit with the powerful scent of her arousal. A few golden notes from his bard, and the woman is so wet she’s practically _ dripping _. A little voice in the back of his mind tells him that this could well be the night.

The woman grows bold, tracing dainty fingers along the fine, golden hem of Jaskier’s doublet. “...Are you here alone, handsome?” Her ruby lips are curled into a tantalizing smile that Jaskier meets readily. 

“No, ah… I’m here with a friend, actually.” He says, fingers strumming absently across the strings of his lute. He makes no move to remove the woman’s hand from his person, and the woman seems disinclined to back down so easily. “Did you have a special request, my lady?”

The woman’s fingers flit down Jaskier’s arm, feeling his muscles ripple softly beneath the expensive fabric. “Oh, and where is this _ friend _ ? I would love to meet him. Perhaps we could all become acquainted more… _ intimately _.” Her eyelashes flutter, a soft pink blush dusting across her high cheekbones.

Jaskier coughs, before strumming a horribly discordant chord that has the Witcher’s hackles raised. “I… ahem, I fear I may have given you the wrong impression, my lady. He’s not _ that kind _ of friend.”

Her lips turned down into a slight pout, “Pray tell, what kind of _ friend _ is he, then?”

The bard’s eyes flit to the Witcher, his body tight as a wire and exuding all sorts of nervous energy. He cannot help but feel as though _ any _ answer he supplies the woman will be wrong - and he _ knows _ Geralt is listening, despite his efforts to appear aloof. “He’s… my traveling companion. My muse.”

She arches one dark, delicate eyebrow, “You love him.” It’s not a question.

“No! N-No, I…” Jaskier spits out a little too fast, and there it is. The truth. 

It hurts, but it isn’t like he hadn’t been expecting it. Everything ends. He tunes out the remainder of the conversation as he makes his way up to the barkeep and slams down a purse teeming with coin and demands a _ bottle _ of the strongest swill he has. It won’t be enough to get him drunk, but at the very least it’ll thaw out his black, frozen insides… at least for a little while. He doesn’t bother with a mug, yanking out the cork stopper with his teeth and drinking straight from the bottle as he watches the nameless barmaid continue to paw at Jaskier. Jaskier’s eyes flit over to him again, and he seems to make up his mind, excusing himself from the conversation to all but _ run _ to Geralt’s side. 

“I do wish the patrons would be less… touchy-feely.” He shivers, “Though I suppose a bit of fondling above the belt is much preferable to being pelted with food… and silver… and rocks.” He laughs, sounding more than a bit nervous, before noticing that Geralt is not looking at him. “Geralt?”

“Hmm.” Jaskier knows the other well-enough to know that this is not a response to his inquiry - if anything, it is a reflex born of hearing his name. Even so, the bard continues on:

“Are you… feeling alright? You’re looking a bit pale, my friend.” The endearment is like a stab through the Witcher’s black heart, and he hates how much it hurts him to hear it. “Well… more so than usual.”

Geralt stares at him for a moment in absolute, nerve-wracking silence, before cursing underneath his breath and rising to his feet. “I’m retiring for the evening.” 

“Already?” Jaskier frowns, bolting to his feet and hurrying along after, struggling to keep up with the Witcher’s long strides. “It’s early yet, and you haven’t had a bath -,”

The Witcher’s thick lips curl into a smirk that trembles at the corners, “Hmm… well isn’t it most fortunate that you won’t have to suffer the stench tonight.” Crystalline tears cling to his long, dark lashes and Jaskier feels his stomach plummet as the door to their room slams shut in his face.

The sound of the lock sliding into place sounds horribly _ final _.

~~~***~~~

Geralt is always waiting for the end, but fate is a cruel mistress who decides to prolong his suffering indefinitely, if only to have the divine pleasure of watching him slowly fall apart. 

Jaskier does not love him, and yet… when he opens the door the following morning, the sun having barely crested the horizon, there is his lovely bard, body bent and contorted at a most uncomfortable looking angle as he uses the floor and the door as a makeshift bed. When the door swings open, he tumbles down into an unceremonious heap at Geralt’s feet, hazy cornflower blue eyes blinking open slowly. He flashes the Witcher a tired grin and begins to babble on about everything and nothing and Geralt doesn’t invite him along but that’s never mattered before, and it certainly doesn’t now. Jaskier follows after him happily, and everything is somehow _ normal _ and _ not _ at the same time.

They travel from dawn to dusk without rest, and not once does Jaskier complain. That in and of itself is unusual, but Geralt is too deep in his den of self-loathing to take note of the changes in the bard’s disposition. He wonders if the bard seeks to make _ him _ the evil one - to have him yell and scream and curse and order the younger man away, just like he had all those months before. It’s not difficult to paint him in the role of the villain, a mutated beast scarcely better than the monsters he kills. 

He’d thought Jaskier had seen him as more. He’d thought… well, he’d thought a lot of things. 

“Why are you still here?” He asks, finally. Jaskier is setting up the bedrolls, unrolling the soft, thin material with care when the question finally registers.

“...Where else would I be?” Jaskier counters, sounding more than a touch uncertain. It’s almost as if he knows that Geralt is asking more, _ expecting _ more than he lets on - but he’s unable to parse out exactly what the other is seeking. 

It’s easier to push him away. If he can end it quickly, then the pain heartache won’t sting quite so bad, or last quite so long. “Literally _ anywhere _ else.”

Jaskier purses his lips, “I’m going to do my best to not get offended - you’ve had a rough night, and we’ve been traveling non-stop since we left the tavern. A proper night’s rest will do you wonders, and I’m certain I have some lavender oil that’ll help you to sleep like a newborn babe -,”

“Jaskier!” He shouts, cutting off the other’s train of thought rather abruptly. Jaskier stops, mouth open around a half-formed word, as the Witcher spits out, “I want you to _ leave _!”

Tears pool in the corners of cornflower blue eyes as Geralt’s words wash over the bard like a tidal wave. Geralt can smell the salty tang of the other’s tears, but finds it near impossible to look past his own overwhelming hurt to acknowledge that of the other. “G-Geralt, I -,”

The Witcher turns his back on him, mid-sentence. He takes out a piece of flint and begins to set up a small fire, and if Jaskier weren’t so godsdamned _ hurt _ over the other ignoring him so blatantly, he likely would have been awed at the blatant display of _ trust _ the other showed him in baring his back in the middle of a fight. As it were, he has a horrible time overcoming the all-encompassing _ ache _ in his chest to think clearly about _ anything _ , let alone Geralt’s trust issues. He wants to point out that it’s far from safe for him to be wandering through the forest on his own in the middle of the night, but if Geralt would even listen - and apparently, that was a _ big _ ‘if’ - he doubts it would make a difference.

He clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides, “If I leave… I-I’m not coming back this time, Geralt.” He says, voice wavering, hoping against hope that his words would somehow _ sway _ the Witcher…

“Hmm.” Geralt violently stabs at the fire, wishing the other would _ leave _ before he loses the will to send him away. Years of pretending like he _ doesn’t _ have emotions has rendered him an unfortunate mix of emotionally _ constipated _ and emotionally _ fragile _ \- he feels like he could throw up… or cry… or both.

Jaskier bristles, “Hmm? That’s all you have to say? Fucking _ hmm _?” He takes a deep, shaky breath, attempting to calm the rapid-fire beating of his heart. “Look, if this is about what happened last night at the tavern, I wasn’t going to do anything with her. I wouldn’t -,”

Geralt narrows his eyes, “You’re free to stick your dick in whatever pleases you, Jaskier. I don’t _ care _.”

The bard recoils as if he’d been slapped, “B-But…” he gestures vaguely between them, “I… I thought that we had something going on between us.” His voice is weak, strained… easily carried off by the wind. But Geralt hears, of course he does. 

The Witcher tightens his hold on the stick in his hand until the bark cuts into the soft flesh of his palm, dark red blood seeping into the dark wood. “Yeah, well… you thought wrong.”

“I…” he swallows hard, a few tears trailing down his ruddy cheeks, “You said… t-that you loved me.”

And something inside of the Witcher _ snaps _ , “I’m not the one who stopped loving the other!” His chest is heaving, his features pulled tight in a positively _ feral _ expression.

Jaskier blinks, more tears pouring from his reddened blue eyes, “W-_ What _?”

“_ Fuck _.”

Geralt rises to his feet a bit too quickly, wobbling as he experiences a sudden headrush. He chucks the singed, bloodied stick somewhere in the darkness, before storming off. Jaskier reaches out, calloused fingers brushing over the Witcher’s shoulder, and Geralt barrels _ through _ him with all the force of a great black bear, very nearly taking the smaller man off of his feet. Jaskier withdraws his hand, his soft, sweet scent soured with distress and confusion… but even when faced with a brutal reminder of the raw _ power _ the Witcher housed in his body, he’s not afraid. He just bites his lip bloody and shuffles aside to allow room for Geralt to pass by without having to touch him again.

“I love you…” he tells him, and instead of making him feel better, it makes him feel like the weight of a full-grown Kikimora is keeping him trapped under murky bog water. He can’t think. He can’t breathe. He just wants it to _ stop hurting _. 

He wants to apologize, to _ beg _ Jaskier not to leave him.

He keeps walking.

~~~***~~~

“We should probably… _ talk _.” Jaskier is still awake when Geralt returns several hours later, tending to the fire and looking like he hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep. Guilt and regret gnaw at the Witcher’s gut, but he tamps the rebellious feelings down with a low snarl. 

“Why are you _ still here _ ?” He doesn’t look at his - _ the _ \- bard as he plops down on the other side of the fire, wringing the last bit of excess water from his hair. 

Jaskier manages a half-way menacing glare as he bites back, “I happen to be exactly where I want to be.” He says, “The _ real _ question is why you’re trying so damn hard to rid yourself of me.”

Geralt is always waiting for the end. Each and every one of his relationships have ended in heartbreak and blood and regret. It’s only a matter of time. He just hopes that the foolhardy bard is wise enough not to incur the wrath of the wrong type of monster and… He never wants another Renfri. Doesn’t think he could do the same with someone who meant so much more. If he had to kill Jaskier, if it was Jaskier’s life or his… Geralt wants, _ needs _ him to leave. It’s easier if they do this now. 

Since Jaskier won’t end it, Geralt will. It’s better that way. Safer. It’ll hurt, of course it will, but everything ends eventually. And if Jaskier doesn’t love him - he’s not going to sit around and pretend to play house with the bard, not going to sit around and pretend that everything is fine and dandy, when he’s been trapping _ the _ bard in a loveless relationship. Everything ends. _ Everything ends _. 

The bard doesn’t love him and his rebellious body decides that _ now _ would be a good time to start crying.

Real, true romantic love is a lie. It doesn’t exist. Who could ever love a Witcher?

“You’re not stupid, Jaskier.” The Witcher snarls, “Even a _ mutt _ can tell when it’s overstayed its welcome.”

Jaskier winces, but doesn’t back down. “Contrary to what you may believe, Geralt - I’ve become accustomed to your manners of speech. You’re being an ass to cover the fact that you don’t know how to handle your own emotions.” 

Geralt scowls, “Do tell me - how in the hell is one _ supposed _ to handle finding out that their partner doesn’t love them?” Tears drip from his long, coal lashes, which he hid behind his dripping hair. 

“You keep saying that, but you’re not making any sense. I’ve told you that I love you more times than I can count. I’m sorry that I’ve done something to make you doubt that all of a sudden, but I can’t fix a problem when I don’t know what it is.” Jaskier says, voice growing soft near the end of his rant.

Geralt tugs on his hair until sharp pain blossoms across his scalp, “Then explain what you said to _ her _.”

“Her?” Jaskier’s chestnut brows furrow uncertainly.

“Her.” Geralt grunts, turning his back on the bard once again.

Jaskier replays the events of the night before in his head, remembering the overly handsy barmaid that had been trying to coax him and Geralt into a threesome. He hardly thinks that Geralt is so upset over him turning down her offer, so what could… And then he remembers. He’d called Geralt his muse and the woman had asked if he loved him, and he’d said _ no _ . But that… that’s not what he’d _ meant _. She’d simply caught him off-guard with her sudden line of questioning. It’s not as if he and Geralt are particularly open about their relationship - if the world is not kind to Witchers, it is even less so to a Witcher’s mate. Geralt never wanted the other to be hurt because of their association.

The issue had fortunately never come up… until now. He remembers feeling lost, uncertain of how to answer. Eloquent as he was, there were times where he was prone to talking out of his ass about everything and nothing… and times when his mouth works faster than his brain. Like when he’d pestered Geralt about Blaviken before he truly _ understood _ what had happened and how badly the events hurt Geralt. Or when he’d spit out that he didn’t love Geralt because he didn’t know what to say and his godsdamned short-sightedness had once again hurt his lover. Apparently, Geralt isn’t the only one who has trouble communicating…

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, wincing as the other man flinches, curling in on himself as if to protect his poor, blackened heart from further harm. In the soft, flickering light of the fire, he can see the subtle way his shoulders are shaking. “I… I truly don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. You said more than enough last night. Just -,” his voice stutters out, his entire body going tense as lean arms wrap around his still damp middle, his soft, silken doublet absorbing the last beads of stream water that still linger on his skin. 

“J-Just listen to me, alright?” Jaskier buries his face between Geralt’s shoulder blades and lets out a shuddering sigh, “I love you, okay? I love you so damn much _ it hurts _ .” He shudders, “I’m an idiot. It’s no excuse, but I didn’t _ think _ \- I didn’t _ think _ before I spoke and I _ hurt you _. I -,”

He can feel the older man’s breath hitch as he does his best not to break down into full-on sobs, “You don’t have to lie to try and make me feel better. Speak plainly, Jaskier. I… I can take it.”

Jaskier shook his head, “I’m never going to hurt you again. Please, just… Just tell me how to fix this. I’ll do anything, Geralt. _ Anything. _ Just… don’t send me away again.”

After a moment, Geralt curls a hand around Jaskier’s, holding on so tight that it almost seems to _ burn _ . “...it _ hurts _, Jaskier.”

“I know.” He whispers, wanting nothing more than to take that pain away. He’s thankful that Geralt isn’t shoving him off, but… he doesn’t know how to fix what he’s broken.

“Everything ends.” Geralt says, his thumb working in slow, steady circles over Jaskier’s knuckles.

Jaskier is silent for a moment, before shaking his head, “It doesn’t have to.” 

~~~***~~~

Jaskier looks so _ pretty _ hanging off of Geralt’s cock, his thick thighs astride Geralt’s lean waist and his long, calloused fingers digging into the dark curls stretched out over the Witcher’s chest as his thick cock drives into him over and over with such beautifully _ brutal _ force he can feel himself bruising. The bard is saying _ something _ , but he’s so lust-drunk and delirious with pleasure it’s difficult to determine with any degree of certainty what it is he’s saying, or make out more than the occasional, high-pitched _ groan _ as Geralt’s thighs slap against his ass, the wet, dripping head of his cock dragging along his prostate and making him see stars. 

Geralt runs his fingers through tangled chocolate tresses, down over the soft scruff that dots across the bard’s chin, to glide across those lovely, full pink lips, glistening with spit and swollen from their most recent kiss. He plunges two fingers into the bard’s mouth, sighing as the bard begins to suckle greedily, that talented tongue slowly swirling over the thick digits and thoroughly coating every last inch of skin in saliva. Their eyes meet as he slowly slides the fingers in and out of Jaskier’s mouth, the excess of fluid creating an obscene squelch that rivalled the slick sound of where their bodies were joined. He withdraws his hand to pull the bard down into a messy kiss, adjusting the angle of his thrusts just-so…

The bard keens, breathless and needy, as the new position allows for his wet, weeping cock to drag along the Witcher’s rock solid abdominal muscles. “Nnn… _ fuck _ , Geralt… _ please _…”

The bard’s hands shift to tangle in the gorgeous mess of hair atop the Witcher’s head, tugging sharply as he raises his hips and slams back down and begs for _ more _ and _ harder _ and _ faster _. “What do you want, little lark?” The soft, affectionate nickname makes his heart stutter. “T-Tell me.”

Jaskier stares at him for a moment, his frantic movements slowing down as all the pieces of the puzzle start to come together. “What I want…” he loosens his grip on the silver-white locks in his hand, choosing instead to tangle them around his fingers. “...is to tell you that I love you. And I… I want to be with you forever. If you’ll have me.”

Molten amber eyes widen ever so slowly… Geralt feels a familiar burning sensation that he does his damndest to ignore, “Fuck.” 

And suddenly, Jaskier is on his back on the bedroll, legs spread so wide he knows that he’ll be feeling the burn for _ days _ . His right leg rests atop the Witcher’s broad shoulders, the left curled around his waist as he resumes thrusting, the sheer power in each thrust driving him further and further up the bedroll until he can feel a small cluster of rocks beneath his head. But that doesn’t matter. _ Nothing _ else matters except the feel of Geralt’s cock splitting him open, and the glide of one monstrously oversized hand on his own aching cock. It feels _ amazing _ . Geralt _ always _ makes him feel amazing. The Witcher buries his face in his shoulder, teeth grazing along the side of his neck.

“...Are you close?” A frantic nod. Jaskier’s mind is too far gone to form coherent words. “What do you want, Jaskier?” He asks again, his voice dipping down the octave as he plays the bard’s body like a finely tuned instrument, determined to make the most beautiful music. 

“D-Don’... Don’ stop.” He slurs, clawing at Geralt’s back and kissing every inch of bare skin within his reach. His entire body is _ humming _ , practically _ vibrating _ with pleasure. He’s so… _ so close _.

“Jaskier?” The Witcher mumbles, teeth grazing over the delicate shell of the bard’s ear. “...I love you, too.”

Well, _ fuck _.

There’s nothing inherently erotic about what Geralt said or how he said it, but Jaskier cannot help but feel as though he’s never cum harder in his life. His orgasm hits with all the strength of a great flood, his muscles tensing and his back arching as he screams some garbled version of Geralt’s name and paints both of their bodies in his seed. He clamps down _ hard _, legs curling around Geralt’s hulking frame and holding him close, relishing the soft cacophony of grunts and moans and sighs that spill from the Witcher’s lips as he tumbles off the edge into nirvana. The pleasant warmth of his seed inside his sated body has him trembling with little aftershocks of pleasure as Geralt slowly, carefully pulls away.

The Witcher wets his lips, tasting the lingering remnants of _ Jaskier _ on his skin, and whispers, “So… forever, huh?” It’s a promise that proposes a _ different _ kind of ending, but an ending all the same. 

An ending far more painful than the one he’d been envisioning since the night at the tavern.

Jaskier slowly drags himself into a sitting position, wincing a bit at the sharp throb of pain the movement elicits in his lower spine. Gods, but Geralt had fucked him _ good _. “I know that… we have rather different definitions of forever, but… if you’ll have me, I’d like to spend mine loving you.”

He stares into Jaskier’s tired, cornflower blue eyes for a long moment, before conceding, “Forever, then. You’ll be mine… and I’ll be yours.”

Jaskier’s smile is brighter than the fucking _ sun _ as he tackles Geralt, knocking them both to the ground, and snuggles down onto the older man’s chest. “I love you… and I will love you until I die. And if there is a life after that, I’ll love you then.” He plants a soft kiss on his stomach, before whispering, “Not all good things have to end.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth quirks up into the beginnings of a smile, “Hmm.”


End file.
